


No voice is hush’d - no life treads silently

by George_Music_Man_Hodgson



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Adaptation, Adapted From a Film/Screenplay/Novel, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Feels, Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage-Non Consummated, Child!John Irving, Don't copy to another site, Emotional, Erotic, Feelings, Feels, Femme George Hodgson, Femme Hodgson, Forced Marriage, Genderqueer, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Character(s), Genderqueer George Hodgson, George Hodgson in a dress, George Hodgson/James Fitzjames (past), George Music Man Hodgson, George Piano Man Hodgson, Healing, Hodge in a dress, Hodgson in a dress, I REGRET NOTHING, Infidelity, John Irving as a Child, Love Affair, Love Triangle, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Pregnancy (off-screen; inferred), Marriage Without Sex, Musical Instrument - Freeform, Muteness, New Zealand, New Zealand Frontier, Non-Consensual Touching, Parent/Child Role Reversal, Piano, Power Play, Queer Character, Queer Character(s), Queer Friendly Society, Same-Sex Marriage, Seduction, Selective Muteness, Sign Language, Silence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Telepathy, Temporary Unrequited Love, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Piano (Film) - Freeform, The Piano AU, The Piano as Voice, Unconventionality, Victorian Attitudes, elective mutism, emotional tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26414521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Music_Man_Hodgson/pseuds/George_Music_Man_Hodgson
Summary: An electively mute genderqueer George Hodgson is sold by his father into marriage to a former sea captain, Sir James Clark Ross, now a New Zealand frontiersman, bringing his young son Jonathan-Irving with him. George has not spoken a word since he was six and he expresses himself through his piano playing and through sign language, for which his son, in parent-child role reversal, has served as his interpreter.In New Zealand, George's precious piano is sold by Ross to his friend, a fellow forester and former sea captain, Edward Little in exchange for more land. Determined to regain his piano, George enters into an arrangement proposed by Edward in which he can earn his piano back at a rate of one piano key per piano lesson, provided that he can observe him and do "things he likes" while he plays. The "lessons" with Edward become a slow seduction for his affection, with Edward soon requesting increased intimacy in exchange for greater numbers of keys...
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames & Lt George Hodgson, George Hodgson/Edward Little, George Hodgson/James Clark Ross, George Hodgson/James Fitzjames, Lt George Hodgson/Lt Edward Little, Lt George Hodgson/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an adaptation of the 1993 erotic period drama "The Piano" written, produced, and directed by Jane Campion starring Holly Hunter, Harvey Keitel, Sam Neill, and Anna Paquin in her first acting role at the age of eleven. 
> 
> This prologue is a voice over directly from the film/screenplay. I will be taking the dialogue directly from the screenplay to use in this work of fiction. I will also be using some parts taken from the 1994 novel of the same name, also written by Jane Campion, in the later chapters to be interwoven with my own writing. 
> 
> NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT INTENDED. THIS IS STRICTLY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES. JANE CAMPION OWNS ALL RIGHTS TO THE ORIGINAL WORKS UPON WHICH THIS FICTION IS BASED UPON.

_The voice you hear is not my speaking voice, but my mind’s voice._

_I have not spoken since I was six years old, though no one knows why, not even me. My benefactor says my silence is a dark talent, and the day I take it into my head to stop breathing will be my last._

_Today he married me to a man I’ve not yet met. Soon my son and I shall join him in his own country. My husband said my muteness does not bother him. He writes and hark this: God loves dumb creatures, so why not he!_

_Were good he had God’s patience for silence affects everyone in the end. The strange thing is I don’t think myself silent, that is, because of my piano. I shall miss it on the journey._

  
  



	2. We are going to meet a sea captain…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 

**_14th April 1848 - Wiltshire, England_ **

**_Late Morning_ **

George sits leaning against a tree in the field near the three-storey stone house that was his father’s residence. He wore a periwinkle crêpe day dress, his long blond hair that reached just below his shoulder blades was perfectly curled and with the exception of a silver butterfly hair comb pinning a sweep of tresses to the side, he wore it free, defying the convention of pinning it all up under an appropriate bonnet. Around his neck he wore a small writing pad complete with a tiny pen, but it lay unused and unneeded at present, as his hands currently covered his face.

_I fear not the darkness, like most do. Often I spread my fingers in front of my eyes, pretending at blindness. There is a freedom this darkness grants me, such as I cannot describe. Strange to say, should my sight be lost or taken, and I left in the darkness, mute, I would not fear nor grow melancholy. No, for I have the companionship of my piano, still, and the music only I can create._

Hearing the flutter of bird wings and chirping, George lowered his hands and rose, following the sound. He crossed the length of the field, enjoying the fine spring weather and the shafts of morning light that pierced through the gathered clouds and haze. He had no notion what the weather and landscape would be like in New Zealand, where he was bound. All George knew was that he was going to miss Wiltshire; miss the quiet life he’d grown accustomed to in his father’s house with his son. 

Suddenly George heard a crash and the sound of breaking china from one of the open windows, the sound reaching him none too difficult due to his keen hearing. He smiled with amusement, knowing perfectly well what had happened, and that his ten year old son Jonathan-Irving, affectionately known as Johnny, was at the center of it. Knowing his time outdoors was now at an end, he turned back, and wishing to prolong the moment of departure, _slowly_ returned to the house. 

Once inside, George came up against Johnny whooshing by on his roller skates, careening down the corridor to the left. A parlour maid stepped out from a door near the end of the corridor, looking after where Johnny disappeared. She then caught sight of George and immediately left the doorway to continue with whatever task she’d been attending to. With their departure date almost upon them, the entire house was bustling and in various stages of minor chaos.

George wandered into the parlour, then, to see three men wearing long grey aprons fitting the packing for the piano. On one of the men’s arms is a tattoo of a whale in a wild sea. Hating to see his piano being packed away, he focused on the tattoo- on the idea of whales in a wild sea, or perhaps it was just the wild sea that appealed. George wondered what it would be like to go to sea. He had vague notions of what it would be like, based only on popular fiction. A rather wild idea seized him then- captaining his own small vessel, Johnny a midshipman, and traveling to ports the world over, beholden to no one. Such a life that would be. 

Leaving the parlour, George wandered through the house, eventually moving upstairs and stopping to look into his bedroom and boudoir. A silent phantom, he- all trace of him being packed away as though he had never been. Would the walls whisper of him and his existence to any who would step foot inside? Would his father hear the echoes of him and perhaps miss him? The doctor had given his aging father less than a year. Less than a year in which to arrange for George’s marriage by proxy to an Englishman who now made his home in some New Zealand backwater. Less than a year to arrange for George and Johnny to be packed up and conveyed to their new life where they would be cared and provided for. 

Crossing the length of the room, George reached the window and looked out. A few birds flitted from branch to branch on the tree outside. Beyond the tree he could see Johnny, still wearing his skates, sat atop his small black pony, Terror. Upon receiving the pony as a gift for his ninth birthday, Johnny had remarked that the pony was black as night and should have an appropriately intimidating name. It became apparent, however, that Terror was far from a terror. The animal was affectionate, mild, and a bit stubborn. It’s stubbornness was currently showing, as their stablehand, an old man, was attempting to pull Terror to movement, but the pony simply would not be budged.

A notion came to him then, and he wondered if perhaps the poor creature was simply protesting the roller skates...

* * *

**_Late Evening_ **

Standing by a window lit by moonlight, George’s skin appeared luminescent and white. He touches the window frame, curtain, and the objects on the window sill—a small ship in a bottle and an ivory carving of an Arctic bear—his mind abstracted, hands unconsciously performing a farewell. All this would be but a memory. The land, the house, the rooms, this life- all but a memory. 

Turning from the window he moves to the square piano—his beloved piano—crowded by packing boxes. In the dim light he begins to play strongly. His face strains, he is utterly involved, unaware of his own strange guttural sounds that form an eerie accompaniment to the music. An old night maid in a night dress looks in. Abruptly George stops playing. The emotion leaves his face, it whitens and seems like a solid wall. His blue eyes focus resolutely on piano keys before him, hands folding together in his lap, waiting. The moment he hears the maid’s footsteps ascending the stairs he raises his hands to the keys and begins to play again, picking up exactly where he left off, eyes closing as he lost himself to the music, and to the memory…

_Their hands meet over the keys. They falter a moment in the playful duet, but otherwise continue to play with high spirits. James laughs, and George smiles. He is resolved not to let James’ charming laughter and trademark grins distract him from the duet, determined to win this little musical battle. When James suddenly reached up to cup his cheek, turning his head so their eyes could meet, George still would not relent. Though they faced one another now, and though his heart now raced for another reason entirely, he kept playing._

_Clearly amused with him for his stubborn determination, James laughed again. He gave George’s cheek the gentlest of caresses and leaned in, kissing him with infinite sweetness. George, for all his desire to win, couldn’t resist returning the kiss. His hands abandoned the piano keys, finding their way to James’ neck, resting on either side as he gave himself over to the kiss and subsequent embrace…_

* * *

  
  
**_Night_ **

On his way to bed, George stopped into Johnny’s room to check in on him. His son was fast asleep under the covers, but something odd protruded from beneath the covers at the foot of the bed. Moving closer, he pulled back the covers to find Johnny had gone to bed with his skates on. Shaking his head with a smile, George quickly undid the laces with long-slender fingered dexterity and removed each skate, setting the pair under the bed. Tucking Johnny back in, he bent to kiss the top of his head before leaving the room, leaving him to his slumber.

* * *

  
  


**_16th April 1848 - The Sea_ **

**_Midday_ **

It was an hour and a half since the ship set sail. George had yet to leave his spot at the stern. He’d kept an eye on the land, watching it slowly disappear behind him. He’d remained still, with so fixed a stare that Johnny—who had already explored the ship—reported to him that the crew were whispering about him. They thought him _fey_. It hardly mattered to George; he was quite used to such talk by now. He remained indifferent to it. Indeed, the distance between himself and the people around him grew greater every day, greater than the distance that lay between himself and England, between himself and the memories he held dear. 

_A beloved hand lost itself in his long luxuriant blond curls. Above him, his lover was dappled in morning sunlight filtering through the canopy above them. A moan escaped him when James’ body merged with his. George was never silent with James. Whether it was the piano or the sounds of passionate appreciation that escaped him when they became one, he was never silent._

Ever since that moment when James Fitzjames, his piano teacher—former naval captain—turned lover, had first carded his fingers through his hair, George ceased to pin up his hair and refused to ever let a bonnet adorn his head again. Even now all these years later as he stood holding Johnny’s hand, both of them gazing at the sea, and the wake left behind by the ship, George’s hair was free and billowing in the wind. Reaching up with a free hand, he undid the ribbon that had held a section of curls back from his face, letting the wind carry it from his fingers to the sea far behind.

* * *

  
  


**_16th May 1848 - The Sea_ **

**_Morning_ **

A month into the voyage found George settled into a routine. Each morning after breakfast and every evening after dinner, truly meagre affairs with fish, usually fresh and dried, or otherwise fried and boiled and baked—indeed, they hadn’t any fresh food for weeks—he would descend to the cargo hold with Johnny in tow, and there he would loosen the packing around the keys of his piano enough to get his fingers in and play. The music soothed their souls, particularly after the ship had encountered a fierce storm, leaving the pair of them with a colorful assortment of bruises. 

The sea roiled and pitched tremendously, quite throwing George and Johnny from floor to ceiling in the tiny cabin they had been confined to the moment the storm was upon them. As the ship groaned, continually hammered by the sea, George had wondered if they were traveling now to hell, or some other dark place of ruin. He couldn’t help thinking this arranged marriage, being wrenched away from home, was perhaps a punishment for his sins- or at least one sin in particular, that of having a child outside the most holy state of wedlock. 

He’d truly feared they would be wrecked, but somehow the ship remained stalwart, surviving the storm. The moment the storm had abated, Johnny had been violently ill in an old rusted bucket while George stroked his back soothingly. By the time he’d made it up to the deck, he discovered that while a seaman had been washed overboard, and they’d lost a longboat and a section of bulwark, last rites had already been given and repairs to the ship were well underway. 

Now as George played a lively piece, watching Johnny flit here and there, performing a dance among the boxes lashed together in the hold, he thought once again on the uncertainties that lay ahead. Through the language of hand signs, he’d kept Johnny entertained with stories of adventure on the high seas and of the little he knew about his husband: Sir James Clark Ross. A knighted, retired naval captain, Sir James had been on several expeditions to the Arctic and Antarctic. 

Intrigued by the little George was able to relay, Johnny had spewed question after question of what sort of life they would now lead, and as he had no real answers for these questions, Johnny invented his own: “We are going to meet a sea captain and he’ll take us on many adventures. We shall live by the sea and I shall do whatever I please.” George did not speak, and Johnny was his own interpreter, but the child’s stories had a life of their own. 

  
  



	3. Between the Sea and the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 

_ 8th September 1848 - New Zealand _

_ Noon _

Several months had passed and their long journey was now nearly at an end. They’d since passed over the equator, where the air and breezes were usually warm and humid; and for weeks they’d been in the company of great seabirds, porpoises, and flying fish. Indeed, Johnny prattled on endlessly about the flying fish in particular, so fascinated that such a species should exist. He’d even created a folkloric history for the species, explaining that once upon a time a fish and a bird had fallen in love and through their love sired such progeny which now graced this corner of the world.

While Johnny spent his time watching for the flying fish and counting them when they made an appearance, George stood at the bow, enjoying the spray of the sea even as he thought about Johnny’s story about the bird and the fish. He found himself contemplating whether he was the fish or the bird in the story. Perhaps he was the fish, forced to remain in the sea and raise a new life form that was neither fully fish nor fully bird; and perhaps the bird’s wings had been clipped to prevent it making a home somewhere with the fish. It was a tale as old as time.

Everyday after breakfast and after time spent with his piano, George would stand at the bow, staring out from the deck of the ship, wearing one of several black crêpe day dresses he alternated, as though in mourning. Presently, the ship had been traveling alongside land for several hundred miles, and all he could see were dark cliffs, and sometimes mountains behind those cliffs; and on many mornings the shore even vanished, shrouded in so much mist. It was there, standing so tall and solitary, musing over the mist and what lay beyond, that the captain found him. They would be reaching their destination sometime tomorrow and George was advised to have everything prepared for their disembarkation, as the ship would not delay long. He spared the diminutive ruddy faced captain a slight nod and turned away, effectively dismissing him. 

* * *

  
  


_ 9th September 1848 - New Zealand _

_ Midafternoon _

A small surf-boat cut through the swell and spray of a riotous sea. At the edge of a far off country, George and Johnny were manhandled out of the boat and carried upon the shoulders of the seamen. Quite unceremoniously George was set on his feet on the silvery sand of a desolate shore, the sound of the sea thunderous behind him. His booted feet sank down into the wet sand as the sea rushed in around him, the wind blowing strong and salty, whipping his clothes and hair. He gazed at the confusion of fern and brush directly ahead and searched out the high and rugged cliffs—covered in the densest of foliage, some of which he’d never before seen—for some sign of life. There was nothing, no people, and no trace of the hand of man upon it. George had truly come to the end of the world to meet his husband.

Turning away from the verdant forest George watched from a safe distance while the seamen carried their trunks and boxes from the boat to the beach. Not far from him stood a few sailors urinating together in the open, but he paid them no mind, his attention completely arrested by the sight of the other men who were now staggering though the waves with his piano. His fists clenched in anticipation and deep concern while it was so precariously transported. They attempted to settle it just on the shoreline, obviously tired from carrying and leveraging it, but George furiously gestured for them to bring it to higher, safer ground. When it was placed near him, George moved forward quickly to inspect the instrument in its box, one hand in constant touch with it while Johnny gripped the other as though fearful of their current location and situation. 

While the sailors talked, it became clear there was no one to meet them. Perhaps the land contained no one at all. The men looked uneasy. From the expressions on nearly all their faces it was clear they did not wish to get involved, but seemed to be having an attack of conscience over leaving him and Johnny there all alone. Eventually one, apparently the elected spokesman, peeled off from the group and came forward to speak to George. He was a tall, large man with a gut, his skin ruddy and altered by sun and sea weather, sporting a gruesome looking scar across the bridge of his nose and left cheek. He wore a battered straw hat tied under his chin and his layers of clothing appeared to be bound together by a layer of dirt.

“It’s a little rough out there. Could be they can’t get through to you in this weather. Maybe they’ll come overland.”

George nodded, the broad wine-coloured ribbon in his hair flapping in the wind. 

“Have you things for shelter?” 

George signed to Johnny, who interpreted his mother’s hand gestures, speaking clearly, loudly, and without emotion: “He says ‘Thank you.’”

The sailor turned, about to leave them when a thought occurred to him, “Does your mother prefer to come on with us to Nelson?”

His expression one of cold dislike, George signed vehemently.

“He says ‘No,’” announced Johnny, disgust evident on his small pert face. “He says he’d rather be boiled alive by natives than get back in your stinking tub.”

Though he did not show it, George thoroughly enjoyed the license Johnny took with his words, the child often voicing thoughts an adult dare not speak aloud. 

The amusement, however, was certainly not shared. Sore aggrieved, the grizzled sailor took a step toward Johnny. Instantly George stepped in front of his son, putting himself between them with a deep frown.

“You be damned fortuned I don’t smack your puppy gob, son!” The sailor glared at Johnny. “Damn lucky.” 

With that the man turned and left them to their fate. He and the other seamen pushed the boat back out far enough into the water before hopping in, making their way back to the ship.

The hours passed slowly. With Johnny’s help, they managed to drag their scattered belongings along the sand to the piano; the particular arrangement of crates, trunks, and piano created the odd semblance of a sitting room. Together they sat on a packing crate, George clutching a plum-coloured umbrella with gold fringe to break the relentless wind, and after some time, Johnny fell asleep with a half-eaten biscuit in his hand.

George found himself surprised by the noise in this desolate stretch of beach; the crash of the waves where sea met land, the trees thrashing back and forth in the wind, and the cawing seabirds that circled overhead- a symphony of dissonance. Time and again he cast his eyes toward the cliffs, searching, yet still, no one appeared. Perhaps no one would appear and they would remain on this far flung shore waiting…

Now George wondered if perhaps his refusal of the sailor’s offer had been most unwise. He quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind; after their journey he was prepared for any eventuality, nothing would cause him surprise. As he stroked Johnny’s face, he thought of that long journey, of how they’d both been hardened by the privations. 

Still holding Johnny’s head on his lap, George pulled loose a fractured plank from the piano’s crate. When he slipped his hand, with its new and unfamiliar wedding band, between the slats, he felt the coolness of the ivory keys. The feeling of that cool ivory beneath his fingertips was so soothing he leaned forward and lay his head on the box, as though about to pray, and played a few notes. At first he was reassured, but then after a few moments the sweet familiarity and comfort of the piano began to exaggerate the uncertainty of the isolated beach. 

Suddenly a great rush of water shot from under the raised crate of the piano, pushing the box out from where he and Johnny sat, drenching their boots and the bottom of George's skirts and Johnny’s trousers with foam, brine, and seaweed. George stood stunned, shaken from his reverie and aghast to discover the tide had crept in completely unnoticed. Johnny—awakened quite rudely from his nap—yelped and leapt up onto the piano. Helpless they watched as three boxes floated out to sea, borne away by the tide, before George, startled into movement, waded out into the waves to rescue the chicken cage. Weighed down by skirts that grew heavier with the sea by the second, he could only stare as a single chicken was carried out to sea, squawking. 

As the sun began to go down, George grew more concerned for their safety. Once again they worked together to gather their belongings and drag everything further up the sand to higher ground, as high as they could manage. By the time they accomplished this there was only a single pink streak left in the sky. Stricken, George gazed back toward the piano that wouldn’t budge, his fists clenching for a long moment before he could manage to divert his attention to creating a shelter for them. Welcoming the distraction, he fashioned a makeshift tent, composing a structure from his hooped crinoline cage covered with petticoats and secured at the edges with stones. Inside he lit a candle, transforming the tent into a giant, stranded Chinese lantern. 

Within the tent, George made believe that all was well, and that their night on the beach was but a natural part of their journey. Cocooned inside, he told Johnny a story to distract him from awareness of their predicament, his hands motioning gracefully, sculpting the air, his face alight with expression, at turns tender, sad, humorous, and soft. 

“ _ Mother, I have been thinking _ ,” Johnny signed, then spoke with such solemnity. “I’m not going to call him Papa, I’m not going to call  _ him _ anything. I’m not even going to look at  _ him _ .” 

George took to quieting Johnny, stroking his hair and face, and before long the child fell asleep. Owing to his height, he was forced to lay with his upper body sheltered within the tent while his lower half stretched outside, left to the mercy of the elements. He lay awake, left alone with his doubts and fears. 

* * *

_ 10th September 1848 - New Zealand _

_ Late Morning _

The next morning George was startled awake by loud voices outside the crinoline cage tent. The voices spoke in a strange tongue. 

“Mother!” Johnny whispered anxiously. 

George shushed him with a little comforting gesture as he pulled himself mostly upright, quickly proceeding to straighten Johnny’s hair before tending to his own. 

Just then a portion of cloth was lifted from the tent and a brown face ringed with long black curls peered in at them, surprising them both, causing Johnny to clutch at George. To their instant relief they heard a distinct English accented voice rise above the clamor.

“Mr. Hodgson, Sir James Clark Ross, at your service,” said the voice. “You’ll have to wake yourself. I’ve got men here to carry your things.”

Though George gave Johnny a reassuring smile, he was greatly annoyed for being discovered here in this way, sheltering inside one’s own petticoat—not for any embarrassment, possessing no false sense of modesty—and unable to make himself and Johnny presentable for this first meeting. As it was, he lifted the tent to tilt at an angle, allowing Johnny to crawl out before he, too, leveraged himself out and rose to his feet, tugging down the tightly fitted jacket he wore. 

At first he didn’t even register the sight of his husband, for before him stood a great profusion of people; a majority of them with brown skin who stood staring, men and women alike, and some plucking at his clothes. Back aboard the ship George had been told tales of the Maori—the indigenous people of New Zealand—how they were warlike, fierce, and seafaring cannibals. Now he was stood amongst them, noting that many of their faces were decorated with intricate markings; and there was even one other white man among the group, dark of hair who also sported a small design on his forehead and nose, shaded by the straw hat he wore as though at a picnic, his clothes loose and earth-toned. These people were dressed in a hodgepodge mix of both traditional and European clothes worn in every possible manner; some even wore top hats decorated with feathers and beads.

Uncertain what to make of these people, George finally looked toward the only other white man in the group, the one who stood in stark contrast to the other white man with the straw hat and loose clothing. This one stood tall and dashing, dressed somewhat formally in a mud splattered suit. He knew instantly that this was his husband, Sir James Clark Ross. His dark curly hair was cut short and well kept. The man looked charming and appealing, but George, overcome with the sight of him, and the gathered crowd, looked away.

“Well,” Ross spoke forcefully against the wind, “I see you have a good many boxes. I’d like to know what is in each.”

As he spoke, George felt his skirt suddenly lift. There were two young men lying on the sand, hoisting up the cloth of his petticoat with a stick, and one tried to look underneath. He gasped and kicked out with his booted foot to get them to stop. It was clear they had never seen a man in woman’s clothing and sought to investigate whether he was a man at all. 

“CAN-YOU-HEAR-ME?” Ross intoned loudly, looking puzzled.

George nodded and looked directly at him, his eyes cold, very much insulted by his slow speech and deliberate volume.

“Well, that is good, yes.” He smiled and searched George’ face, looking for some sign of comprehension, unnerved by his husband’s lack of response. 

George merely looked at him with coldness, at which point Ross formed another smile, though it was one that did not quite reach his eyes. The man walked to the nearest crate. A few of the Maori party followed behind Ross, while one of them closely mimicked each of his motions and reactions. Seeing that rather amused George. 

“What’s in here?” Ross asked, indicating a large trunk.

With a pointed finger, George indicated the inscription on the box: CROCKERY AND POTS. All the boxes had been packed and labeled meticulously and he carried an inventory in his bag. 

“Oh, yes, so it is, crockery…” Ross stole a sideways glance at George. “You’re quite tall. I never thought you would be so tall.” At that, George stood even taller, managing to look down his nose at him. 

Ross looked away, noticing the largest crate then. He stepped closer and lifted a corner of wood experimentally. “This one’s rather large. What is in it, a bedstead?” Everyone gathered around, then, and when someone knocked upon it, the piano produced a reverberating echo.

George’s hands hastily reached for the silver notepad and pencil he wore around his neck, but before he could write a reply, Johnny spread his arms protectively over the packing and spoke to his stepfather for the first time, “It is my mother’s piano.” 

As though Johnny hadn’t spoken, Ross strode away without comment to address the other European man: “Little, tell them to carry in pairs. Take all the boxes, the table, and the suitcases.”

George watched from a distance while the two men conversed, paused, and drew near. He could not hear what they were saying.

“What do you think?” Ross nodded his head toward George, keeping his voice low. 

Edward Little considered for a moment. “He looks tired,” he said, eventually.

Ross made no comment and marched away. Edward, however, continued to watch George who signed to his son in a determined way. The young boy seemed puzzled, and as Edward looked on, George opened his notepad and wrote on it.

Johnny dashed over carrying the slip of paper to Ross.  _ “The piano?” _ the note read.

“Oh no, it can’t come now,” said Ross decisively.

“It must,” affirmed Johnny. “He wants it to come.”

Ross spoke plainly to the boy, walking back toward where George stood near the piano, “Yes, and so do I, but there are too few of us to carry it now.” He added, loudly for George to hear, “Too heavy.”

Anxiety rising, George swiftly wrote out another note and handed it to his husband,  _ “I NEED THE PIANO.” _

Ross stared in absolute incredulity, “You mean you don’t want your kitchenware or your clothing?”

George signed to Johnny, who translated, “We can’t leave the piano.”

Ross sighed and turned, beginning to walk toward the route they’d taken earlier, beckoning the two of them to follow. “Let us not discuss this further. I am very pleased that you’ve arrived safely...” he trailed off when he noticed George signing to his son; he has the uncomfortable impression that he is being interrupted.

“Mother wants to know if they could come back directly for it?”

Ross’s mouth hung slightly open, paused in mid-speech. One of the natives near him mimicked his expression perfectly. He, however, ignored the question and continued on, addressing his husband: “Could I apologize for the delay which I regret was caused-”

As he spoke, George kept signing swiftly to Johnny, who then spoke up again, insistent and strident, “...after they have taken the other things?”

Ross stopped and simply stood there, vexed. He turned away in an effort to control his temper. The two native mimics and the growing audience speaking amongst themselves and laughing only unnerved him further. Humiliated and challenged, he knew he could not back down or give in to the demands. The matter of the piano was closed now. Deeply unsettled, he regretted this meeting not going the way he’d long dreamed. He’d hoped at least to kiss George’s hand, but that seemed strange and impossible now.

“Might I suggest you prepare for a difficult journey,” Ross said in a brusque tone to George. “The bush will tear clothes and the mud is deep in places.” 

With that, he departed, leaving George standing beside the piano. Johnny drew close, patting his mother’s hand to provide comfort. He simply could not accept this turn of events, not after having brought the piano so far, all those months and sea miles. The piano was very much part of himself, a solid incarnation of his past, of the love he still bore for the one who taught him to play. He could not ever part with it and would certainly not leave it on the beach.

Some minutes later everything that could be had been collected and the group began the walk to the cliffs and the impregnable bush beyond, moving further away from the glimmering, tumbling ocean, and the lone piano on the shore. Ross did not speak to George, but rather instructed Edward to direct his husband and stepson to follow. George knew he had no choice but to follow, caught as he was between the sea of forest and the rolling waves. Edward kept apace ahead of them and guided them to where a narrow path opened for them as they came to the edge of the trees. Eyes wet with tears and face clouded with fury and resentment, George took Johnny’s hand and quickly set off, leaving Edward struck silent by his show of emotion. 

Eventually the party reached a point on the cliff, and there George was afforded a view of his solitary piano against the backdrop of a roiling sea, the tide creeping in again to flow around the legs. Without his piano he felt voiceless, silenced in a way that had nothing to do with the inability to speak. Without the piano, he felt even further away from home, his past, and his own personhood. As he gazed out he struggled hard to subdue the urge to defy his husband. Instead he anchored himself to the one thing he had left in the world, gripping Johnny’s hand. He resolved to return and find a way to retrieve his piano. 

  
  



	4. Are you certain his mind is sound?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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**_10th September 1848 - New Zealand_ **

**_Noon_ **

The journey from the beach through the bush grew more exhausting with each step George took. The day was warm and quite humid to the point that clothes became sticky from sweat and grew tighter as they pressed on. The brown feet of the Maori squelched through the mud followed by his and Johnny’s booted feet which sometimes sank down deep enough for the mud to reach his ankles and in Johnny’s case, halfway up his calves. 

Here and there George had a dark fantasy that he’d step into a quicksand and find himself swallowed up by it, only a wine-coloured ribbon left on the surface to mark his muddy grave.

Yet, for all the mud, George couldn’t help being fascinated by the verdant forest and the shafts of sunlight that filtered in through the canopy creating a shifting kaleidoscope of colours. The exotic abundance of trailing vines, leaves, and flora enchanted him. There was a certain untamed beauty about it. 

As they continued on, it became clear to George that they were being led by the Maoris and the man Edward Little, which was not surprising considering he spoke their language and could translate for Ross. At times he could hear Little speaking to them, his words taking on a pleasant cadence. It was strangely comforting.

While George struggled behind, often having to pluck Johnny right out of the deeper parts of the mud, Ross kept far ahead of his new husband and his child, not deigning to look back at them. 

Now that George was finally here, finally close enough to grasp, he was greatly disappointed to find he was far from what he’d imagined his husband to be. When Ross had learned that George was mute, he’d rather ascribed qualities and traits he now realized he should not have; he’d expected someone pious, biddable, beautiful, respectful, and infinitely grateful to him for taking him on, a silent saint. Instead he found—that while quite beautiful—George was the furthest thing from those expectations. He’d been a fool for expecting a quiescent saint when the man was a mail-order husband.

By the same token, Sir James Clark Ross has not fulfilled George’s expectations. One is not sold across the sea to find oneself a husband to a kindly disposed master. While Ross was certainly attractive and appealing, he lacked grace and gentility. He remembered his aging father speaking to a friend about Ross. It was after dinner, they’d been in the drawing room smoking their pipes and George had been on his way up to check on Johnny when he’d heard the name ‘Ross’, and so paused outside the door to listen.

Ross was a failed captain. He failed at a final expedition to the Arctic. In his last attempt his actions led to his ship, the  _ H.M.S. Erebus  _ and Captain Crozier’s ship  _ H.M.S. Terror  _ becoming trapped in ice, followed by  _ Erebus  _ being lost to a great conflagration, a loss of many lives. More lives were lost due to spoiled provisions, scurvy—the scourge of nautical life—and other manifestations of debility. The other captain, Crozier, had died from alcoholic withdrawal due to an empty spirits room on  _ Terror _ . In the end they’d had to abandon  _ Terror _ when the conditions of the ice became more perilous. They were saved only by the grace of the Inuit passing through the area and, later, by the sheer dumb luck of of an overland rescue party. Now he lived in obscurity in the New Zealand bush.

At great length they finally arrived at the place where Ross lived. By then it was raining heavily, the darkened sky glowering. The sad looking wood house stood in the middle of a clearing surrounded by charred and blackened skeletons of trees—his husband appeared to have utilized the slash and burn technique, perhaps dreaming of polite gardens and lawns—amid a swamp of mud. 

It was a horror. The house was less a house as a crude cabin, and the surroundings a bleak barren graveyard. George felt sick looking upon it, but there was nothing else he could look at. There was nothing but this godforsaken place. Although he was very much glad his long journey was over, George couldn’t help a dark foreboding that his journey should end in such a dreary place.

While George stood there in the rain, soaked through, sheltering Johnny as much as he could, the Maoris began dumping the boxes, suitcases and other belongings on the porch. Ross paid them and they left, chattering amongst themselves like magpies. He watched as Little took his leave of his husband and began walking toward the path that would take him farther up the valley to his own dwellings.

As Little neared them, his eyes caught George’s. George had been watching him all the while, and when Little's eyes met his, he didn’t turn his eyes away, as though in defiant challenge. Their eyes were locked for that brief moment until Little passed him by, turning his gaze to continue on his path. He watched the man until he disappeared out of view into the trees.

Shivering, he turned away and took Johnny’s rain slicked hand, leading the way forward to the porch where his husband waited. Escorting them inside, Ross showed them through the few rooms, kitchen, pantry, and parlor. It was all simple and clean—Ross’s sister, Anne, and her wife, Sophia, had helped him prepare for his new husband’s arrival—and there were a few plain pictures on the walls. When he showed them the two bedrooms he cleared his throat, rather shyly, and said, “Make yourselves comfortable,” without indicating in which room they might put their things. 

Now that the journey was over and they were home, Ross appeared calmer, and he took great pride in his house. George was then made aware that Ross had built the house himself using wood planks he had split from the  _ kauri  _ trees with his own axe and toiling effort.

Through the window, Ross pointed out a wooden platform several feet out into the yard where the well and pump were, as well as the three fruit trees he’d planted: peach, pear, and apple, respectively, indicating they bear a little fruit now.

“I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction,” Ross said, turning to George hopefully. “I must tend to a few chores before I retire for the night. Tomorrow I will show you my,” he paused, clearing his throat, “ _ our _ property.”

Full of expectation, Ross showed a charismatic smile as he nodded and exchanged his top hat for a more workman-like cap, quitting the house and striding off into the moonlight. 

“I don’t want to stay here.” Johnny sat down on the bed, his eyes quite wide.

George signed, “ _ We must. _ ”

“I’m not staying.”

“ _ Where will you go? _ ” asked George.

Johnny stood and went to the window, George behind him. They looked out at the moonlit night, at the dark and dreary place they had come to. 

“Mumma, where might the privy be?”

* * *

  
  


**_Midnight_ **

With Johnny’s help, they managed to bring everything inside from the porch. With it being nightfall, George only unpacked some of their clothing, bed things, and necessities for cleaning up before bed and for their toilette come the morning. They’d attempted to partake of the cold meal left them, until Johnny felt nauseated by it and became sick outside. 

George called an end to the day after that. Now with both of them dressed for the night and curled up in the same bed, George shifted one final time and mercifully drifted to sleep after much tossing and turning.

That night he dreamt of his piano, of being on the beach with the treasured instrument…

_ The sea breeze was in his hair once more, giving the faintly golden tresses flight, granting him the illusion of movement and freedom. The moon and the stars above gave light to the night, and danced upon the dark churning waters that drifted in and out over the shoreline. The only other thing that shone in the darkness was George himself, swathed in a white gown that reflected the light of the moon.  _

_ Approaching the piano, George sat upon the bench and let his hands rest upon the keys, communing with the instrument and relishing the feel of cool keys against the palms of his hands. His eyes closed and his soul, roiling as the sea, soon calmed.  _

_ He began to play. It was a familiar melody, something that wasn’t so much composed but came up from the depths without aid of thought or notation. It was passionate- wild even. It wasn’t the ‘civilized’ piece one might play upon a pianoforte in a cozy parlor in a country estate amongst genteel company. Nonetheless, it was his voice, his song. _

_ George played long into the night, even as the tide drew in, rising higher and higher above his waist, to his neck, eventually swallowing him up completely… _

* * *

**_24th August 1819 - Wiltshire, England_ **

_ George was six years old when his father, Arthur Hodgson, had been put upon to issue an invitation for his two maiden aunts, Eleanor and Diana, to come stay at their home in Wiltshire. If this was not enough to discomfit the rather solitary Arthur, he was also forced to accept a visit from his two unmarried cousins, Rose and Richard.  _

_ Arthur was quite the poor host, and when the appointed day approached his temper grew more difficult and he came particularly peevish and irritable. Even small George—who had the happy talent to soothe any mood from him with his songs, sung with a passion quite odd in a child and a seriousness that beguiled not only Arthur, but the entire household—could do nothing for him. On occasion he would stroke Arthur’s hand with his tiny one, which he had always liked. Now, however, these gentle ministrations had no effect, as he peevishly withdrew his hand to complain about one thing or another. He was quite the singular creature of habit and routine, and now this routine was being intruded upon for the first time in quite a long time. _

_ The first day passed uneventfully, at least, as the guests were much occupied with looking about the house and being shown about the property by the gamekeeper. George, being unused to company, deigned not to join them on their explorations, however he did enjoy watching them when he was certain they wouldn’t notice him.  _

_ Then it happened on the third day that ‘the incident’—as it came to be known-occurred at dinner. Dinner was proceeding badly, Arthur irritable once more, not liking the roast. He complained that the meal was unsatisfactory and inedible, ordering it sent back, quite forgetting that there was nothing to replace it with. The guests were not pleased with their plates being taken from beneath them, but endeavoured to show forbearance to their host.  _

_ It was in the gap between the meal disappearing and dessert arriving that the guests’ and Arthur’s were drawn to little George who was sat between Arthur’s two maiden aunts quietly who was focused on emptying the sugar dispenser into a magnificent large mound of white granules, flattening them on the dark wood and then, with a licked finger began drawing out his name in the sugar.  _

_ Aghast, the two aunts turned to Arthur who, now embarrassed, looked at George and bellowed, “And what is that you are doing?” _

_ “Drawing in the snow,” he said in his small, clear voice. _

_ “That is not snow, dear, that is good sugar wasted,” said Aunt Diana. _

_ “No Aunt, it is snow. I made it fall on to the table.” _

_ “Get up from the table and come to me,” ordered Arthur. _

_ The little boy could not get down from his chair—which was rather high—without help, and said so. This obvious fact infuriated Arthur to an unexpected degree, clearly flustered in front of his guests. He bellowed again with such a great force that shocked everyone.  _

_ “You will go to your room and not speak for the rest of the day- as it seems you only speak to contradict your elders.” _

_ Little George’s face burned a fantastic red. His father had never spoken to him like this before, and he was quite accustomed to being his favored pet. He was normally quite obedient, and when he was not, his favor could be coaxed pleasantly. On this evening, however, spoken to and treated in this manner, George’ shame was complete. He held his hands up in front of his face, allowing none to look upon him, and as his father lifted him down from the chair he kept his hands over his face, hiding the tears that streamed down his cheeks as he stumbled out of the room and made for his bedroom, hearing his father calling after him, “And not to speak, mind you boy!” _

_ Once in the safety of his room, George threw himself across the bed and preparing to sob, took a bite-sized bit of pillow into his mouth. Yet, to his surprise, no sobs came forth. As he sat himself up, releasing the pillow, he was unaware that a darkness came to his eyes that was cold, threatening even. He sat with his hands folded in his lap staring at the far wall, unmoving, as his room descended into darkness, and then on into night. _

_ It took the household a full two days to finally take notice of the fact that little George had ceased to speak entirely, even when ordered to, much to their astonishment. When, after a full week had passed with George uttering not a single word or syllable, Arthur called him into his study. His small, fair-haired, blue-eyed son stood gravely in front of him. There was something eerily disquieting about those blue eyes, and the intensely solemn look about them- the expression part accusatory and part aloof. _

_ “George,” said Arthur, “I have punished you and now this last week you have punished me.”  _

_ Remaining quite still, George looked back at him with a forgiving emotionless quiet. _

_ “Are we even?” Arthur bent forward so that his face was on George’s level. _

_ Though his father’s voice was kind, and despite his enormous love for him, and utter devotion to him, George could not contradict or countermand the edict of his own small iron will. He, as firm as steel, would not speak. _

_ In time the two grew ever closer, Arthur in his mocking, admiring tolerance, and George in his tiny child firmness. It took three years and two trips to specialists in London before it was understood by the maids—who had in private shaken George to force a word—that the little boy would never speak again.  _

_ Since then George had become accustomed to his muteness, refusing to remember ‘the incident’. He knew only that—like a bird that flies south—the reason was unquestionable and fundamental, a part of the fabric of his being upon which everything else was built.  _

* * *

**_11th September 1848 - New Zealand_ **

**_Noon_ **

The next day the downpour continued, making the property appear more like a bog with each passing minute. George had slept heavily and poorly, and upon waking he left the bedroom to find that Ross had already gone. When he noticed the bread and preserves upon the table he remembered that they’d barely eaten the night before.

Proceeding back into the bedroom he performed a quick toilette and dressed, once again in nothing but black; mourning the loss of his autonomy in marrying Ross. Once dressed, George roused Johnny, helping the groggy child out of bed and into the morning rituals of washing and dressing. Today Johnny chose to swap out his trousers for a skirt, a dark grey one, topped with his favorite dark blue waistcoat. Now ready for the day, they helped themselves to the light breakfast and began the business of unpacking. 

Around midday Ross returned; boots and trousers thick with heavy mud, sweaty and smelling of hard work. As he used a jug and small basin to clean up a bit he informed George that his sister, sister in-law, and the Reverend would be arriving shortly. With a prickling of anxiety, George looked out the window to see three people making their way through the deluge, carefully making their way through the bog that now surrounded the house—not unlike a castle surrounded by a moat—carrying baskets and hampers. The trio entered the house quite noisily, much to George’s and Johnny’s unease. Introductions were made and all the while George wondered just how often he would be forced to hold company with them. 

Ross’s sister, Anne, was a petite dark-haired woman dressed in a suit of muted earth colours with a kindly bearing. Sophia, her tall golden-haired wife, was quite her contrast. When Sophia smiled her lips pursed, as though she had scented something undesirable, but was attempting—quite poorly—to mask her expression. Where Sophia was formidable and imposing, Anne was more charming and accessible. One thing they shared in common was their choice of apparel: well-tailored suits. The Reverend, however, was quite bland and unremarkable, so much so that George didn’t bother to make note of his name, highly doubting he would have much to do with him. 

While Anne appeared to be kindly disposed toward George, albeit in a vague polite way, Sophia was far more critical. She took George’ dispassionate manner to be cold haughtiness and told Ross so then and there- presuming George to be deaf. He remained composed and remote, simply choosing to stare directly at her, into her eyes, umoving. 

Perturbed at being stared at in such a way, Sophia turned to her brother in-law and asked, “Are you certain his mind is sound?”

Seeing the glint in George’s eyes, Ross coughed and cleared his throat before displaying another one of his trademark rakish smiles. Ignoring the question he chose to explain the purpose of their visit, which was to take the traditional wedding photograph. The Reverend then produced a lace wedding dress, holding it out to George. 

When George took it and held it up he noticed it was backless with ties like a surgical gown, realizing now this was merely a photographic prop. Clearly everything to do with this marriage was a farce. 

“Come,” said Anne, smiling to dispel the pall that had fallen upon the room. “Let’s get you fitted.” 

She nudged George toward the bedroom, the one he and Johnny had slept in, while Sophia stayed behind to cast aspersions on him. 

* * *

**_Late Afternoon_ **

The party waited for the rain to abate before proceeding outside, walking the boards that had been laid out to ensure no one walked through the heavy mud. For all the effort of laying out those boards, one still broke and George found himself standing in the mud that reached two inches above his ankles. What’s more, by the time he and Ross were set up in seats before a backdrop depicting what looked to be Tuscany, the rain returned. The photograph was hastily taken while thunder clapped overhead and a streak of lightning lit the dreary sky. 

By the time the group returned indoors, George was agitated and rather tore the lace dress from him with such aggression that the ties and part of the gown itself tore. 

Anne, her expression one of tragic affront, swiftly came forward to take the muddy torn gown while Sophia’s expression darkened, muttering, “Terrible...terrible.”

Ross missed the sight of George’ violence toward the dress as he stood just outside on the porch conversing with the Reverend. He felt renewed pride for his new status as husband. While they’d sat for the photograph, he’d looked to George—who looked more like the bride he’d imagined wearing the gown and holding a tatty bouquet—and found himself saying aloud, “ _ Beautiful _ .” Not even the sight of the ties on the prop gown could shatter the illusion he clung to.

As it was, George ignored them all and quickly went to the window in the bedroom he and Johnny shared and stared out at the pouring rain with such fierce anxiety and longing. He imagined his piano on the beach unprotected and embattled in the dark, wet night. None of the distractions of the day had managed to stop him dwelling on such thoughts. Ross made no mention of the piano, or having it transported, and George was certain he was determined to leave it there to rot on the beach in denial of himself and his agency. Pressing his palm against the glass, George only became more fiercely determined to rescue his piano. 

  
  



	5. After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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**_12th September 1848 - New Zealand_ **

**_Early Morning_ **

  
  


Johnny was finishing with his toast the next morning when Ross came into the bedroom. He picked up the wedding dress—the sodden bundle of lace upon the table—then discarded it with annoyance. He watched his husband and stepson, hands dancing, absorbed in conversation. He felt an intruder, unsettled with their secret communication and resentful at his inability to participate in their intimacy. When he moved toward them, they separated, George standing up quite stiff-backed, as if to attention, the atmosphere changing noticeably. 

“I shall be gone for some days. There is some Maori land I want and may buy very reasonably.” His tone was apologetic, presenting a calm front. “I hope you will spend some time settling in, and perhaps, in some way, we could start again?”

After several moments of uncomfortable silence, in which George and Johnny shared a glance, Ross spoke again, looking at George hopefully, “All right?”

Thinking this might be an opportunity for a shift in attitude from Ross toward his beloved piano, George gave him the slightest concession toward a smile—the tiniest curling up of the corner of his lips—and nodded.

Relieved and smiling brighter now, Ross stepped forward and deigned not to notice his sudden motion had startled his husband into taking a step back. He caught George’s hands in his and pressed a kiss to his temple. George remained still, gazing into his husband’s light brown eyes, searching them, his expression kept carefully blank. Seeking to reassure and win over his mysterious spouse, Ross brought one hand up to cup George’s slender neck, resting his thumb over the front of his throat above his Adam’s apple, looking deeply into his eyes. George swallowed. Ross took this to be some sign of interest and leaned in with the intent to finally kiss his husband. Their lips touched but George refused to part his lips, forcing the kiss to be chaste and brief, and beside him Johnny coughed quietly. Drawing back, Ross knew now he would have to win the child over as well.

“Should there be any problems, go to Mr. Little, Edward Little, whom you met. He lives a short distance up the valley—I’ve left a map.”

George merely nodded, unmoved. Ross managed another smile, this one patient, and stroked his husband’s fair hair, sweeping the tresses off his shoulder to lay against his back. After pressing another kiss to George’s temple, he bade them a good day, leaving the room.

Ross left on horseback a short while later. Getting his new spouse settled was proving to be far more difficult than he’d anticipated. His sister, Anne, had been helpful the day before, introducing George to the domestic chores they had agreed should be his new husband’s domain: washing, carrying water, tending the fire, sewing, cooking, the vegetable garden, the chickens...the list had seemed rather long as Anne patiently went over it, but George had shown no disquiet. He would have to give him time, Ross thought.

Once Ross had left, George could think of nothing but the piano— _ his _ piano. Already his life was colourless without it, all the hours in the day elongated with silence. While he went about his tasks—where had Anne said the washing basin was at?—he conceived of a plan to ask Mr. Little to take them to the instrument to ensure it hadn’t been borne away by the tide, or otherwise harmed. Little had a kind face and a quiet manner, he might be agreeable. He studied the map Ross had left upon the kitchen table, then took to dressing Johnny in a cloak over his darkest green skirt, brown waistcoat, and matching dark green jacket. George dressed himself in a ruffled deep plum coloured coat that fitted him neatly and might give him more freedom to walk and make the trek up the valley.

Little’s hut stood in a clearing much brighter and leafier than the depressingly barren ground around the house of James Clark Ross. Edward Little apparently felt no need to clear the native trees and plants off his property. There was birdsong—so pleasant and soothing to George—and he noticed a parrot-like creature with vivid green breast plumage, as though it had been plunged in dye. The rain had ceased and sunlight fell down upon the steep thatched roof of Little’s dwelling. A roan horse was tethered to one side of the hut.

George and Johnny approached the door, which was cut in half like a stable door, the bottom portion standing open, and knocked. Crouching low, Johnny looked inside and spotted a pair of legs clad only in long underwear. Johnny stood smartly then as Little answered the door. It was now midmorning, prompting George to wonder what time he considered full dress appropriate. He wrote a quick note on his silver pad and handed it to him. 

Little took the note, which read,  _ “Please take us back to the beach where we landed.” _ He stared at them evenly. “I’m sorry I can’t do that. I don’t have the time.” When they remained, mirroring his own even look back at him, he said good-bye and closed the door in their faces.

Resolute, George decided to wait for Little to come out of his house. Little  _ would _ help him. There was no one else to turn to. Turning, he stepped off the porch with Johnny, moving to sit with him on one of the large stones that were near the porch, within view of the door. He entertained his son with a few stories, hands moving in a gentle dance, but his eyes never stopped straying to the door of the hut. 

After a while Johnny grew bored of the stories and his distraction. The child began to sing about a pretty bird who was caught by a gentleman who yearned to have a songbird for a pet. Once caged, the bird uttered no song. It sat upon its perch, still and forlorn. Everyday the gentleman coaxed it to sing, but the bird refused him sound. Eventually, weary with the bird’s deathly silence, the gentleman removed it from its cage and clipped its wings before setting it free outside. If he could not have the bird’s song, he could at least enjoy the sight of it as the bird could now scarce go far and would return if only to be fed. Yet, the bird left the confines of the property and drowned in a heavy rain.

While deeply impressed with Johnny’s imaginative—and evocative—storytelling, George could not pry his attention from the door or his focus from his piano stranded on the beach. He could sit no longer. Rising, he stepped closer to the porch but did not mount the steps. He simply stood, stiff-backed, watching the door, and waiting. His feet grew sore, knees locked and stiffened, and his back began to ache as the minutes and hours crept by, but he remained there. He would not be turned away.

When Little did emerge, carrying his jacket over his arm. Johnny rose and joined his mother, insinuating his small hand into the larger hand. Little was surprised to see them standing there so calmly, and as he stepped out they looked at him expectantly. He was unsure what to make of their persistence. 

“I can’t take you there.” Little’s hazel eyes met with brilliant blue ones that saw straight through him. “I can’t do it.”

Turning, he put the saddle over a rail. He continued to saddle up, sneaking glances at them from under the horse and around its side. They watched him closely, not pleadingly, but stubbornly, and to his eyes they seemed eerily alike, one a charming diminutive of the other. At length he acknowledged that he had no choice but to acquiesce to their determination. He felt that if he left them there, there they would remain and Little did not relish the thought of these two watching him forever. So it was this trepidation, a little pity, and a slight curiosity that helped Little to decide. 

* * *

**_Early Afternoon_ **

  
  


The sea was no less noisy as it was when they first arrived. Miraculously, the piano was still there on the beach where they had left it, protected only by its crate and oilskins. George moved as quickly down the steep incline as he was able, his joyful reunion hampered by his skirts and crinoline. The wind was intent on slowing his progress as well, tearing the lavender ribbon from his curled tresses, setting them free in a wild display not unlike Rapunzel when her golden hair was cut and caught the wind for the first time.

Once closer to the piano, he noted the footprints in the sand also observed some of the boards had been pulled back. When it became clear that there had been visitors, George passed Little, walking urgently toward it. Once there, he began to prise the box from the keyboard with his bare hands, tearing at the wood that was branded with his name, displaying a powerful hunger and vehement impatience remarkable to Edward Little. Edward helped him to fashion a primitive seat and then George began to play, taking rapturous delight in feeling his fingers on the cool keys again, his whole disposition altered. The piano found its voice and George with it. He could breathe again and felt free.

The sky was thinly blue with long wisps of cloud that floated away on the afternoon. Edward witnessed a great change come over George Hodgson. George closed his eyes and swayed as he played, his lips open in a half-smile- animated, joyful, and radiant. He was not the stubborn blank-faced anxious man Edward had met earlier.

Some ways away, on the wet sand Johnny stripped down to his petticoats and—also feeling light and free—did a wild dance of his own invention waving streamers of seaweed, inspired by his mother’s elation. He danced and ran, leapt and spun in time to George’s playing. Edward had never seen anyone behave with such abandon. His attention was arrested by George’s passionate playing, and as he watched he found himself edging irresistibly closer to him as he bent, serene and glowing, over the keys. 

George played rapid arpeggios and airy speeding trills, possessed of an unnameable undercurrent that stirred and tugged like the pull of the tide. Edward was enthralled. He had never heard music like this, so filled with yearning; had never seen anyone play an instrument with such ardent absorption. He could not keep his eyes from the sight of this man, lost in the sound of the music he played. It was a moment of great beauty, there on the sand, with the waves crashing and the seabirds circling overhead. George played and played, sometimes accompanied by Johnny but mostly on his own while Edward continued to watch and listen. The music was ethereal, and the pair of them, too, seemed otherworldly to him, like angels. He was deeply moved, almost as if he might cry at such beauty and rarity.

While George played, Johnny determined to make a seahorse and started by fashioning tiny creatures using four or five shells, but Edward said no, he must make a huge creature, big enough for them to see from the clifftop. He allowed himself to be coerced into collecting shells and placing them as the child demanded. It was strange for him to be part of this boy’s fancy, strange and entrancing to be alone on the beach with these two men. The music made it difficult for him to move, for he didn’t listen to it with his ears, but with his whole body so that it ran through him so that he was stilled into hearing and stilled into silence.

As they worked, Johnny told Edward stories about their journey across the sea. “And there were flying fish and they landed in our cooking pot,” said Johnny. Edward listened, but he had only half an ear for Johnny’s stories. George’s music filled his head. 

As the shadows began to lengthen on the sand, Edward collected boards discarded from the crate. He was not able to transport the piano for them, yet he was concerned to protect it. As George noticed Edward coming toward him, obviously intending that they should leave, his mood darkened and he continued playing stubbornly for some time until, abruptly, he stopped, closing the lid over the keys.

They left the beach, but as before, when George reached the cliff top, he turned to look longingly at his piano. The sky darkened and the air was full of birds. At length he turned away, his face grimly set, walking past Edward, very much oblivious to his interest and curiosity.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about how this last scene on the beach played out in the film (upon which this fiction is based) just click [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfpHj1lC5Yk).


	6. There is nothing so easy to like as a pet, and they are quite silent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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**_18th September 1848 - New Zealand_ **

**_Early Evening_ **

  
  


Ross returned from his property survey several days after George made the expedition to the beach with Johnny and Edward. He surveyed the land around his house feeling that another burning and clearing session was in order. He was certain George would want to augment the vegetable patch, and he would have to find time to plant a lawn this year.

Nearing the house, he caught the sound of song. It was a child’s voice—Johnny. The boy was singing, his thin young voice winding out to greet him, and the sound pleased Ross, for it made him feel a homeliness he had not yet known in this place. He dismounted, taking care to keep quiet. The boy sang a mournful tune, one he did not recognize. As he came through the door he realized Johnny was not unaccompanied. George sat at the kitchen table, his hands moving lightly across the wood, as though he were playing the keyboard of a phantom piano. 

“Hello,” Ross spoke quietly. 

George and Johnny immediately halted their pantomime, both standing and moving away from the table. “Hello,” Johnny returned gaily, seeming almost surprised to see his stepfather return. 

Discomfited under their gaze, the silence between them, Ross removed his traveling hat and went to the table, lifting the lace cloth from where George had replaced it. He ran his fingers over a pattern of etched grooves and marks; someone had etched a map of a piano keyboard into the tabletop. Aghast at this defacement of property, a table which he himself had made, Ross immediately concluded that the carver must have been George; he had carved it, and now he played upon it. He lowered the cloth and went back outside, a childlike disappointment fueling his adult rage at being so depreciated by his new family.

George had not intended to aggravate his husband. He had only been missing his piano, and had been pestered by a restless Johnny into their old routine of afternoon singing lessons once the day’s chores had been conquered. Johnny had insisted that the table was in fact a piano and that the wooden keyboard sounded most lovely when played. The child had taken a pencil to the table and drawn a crude keyboard onto it and demanded George play when he himself grew tired of the toneless thumping of fingers on wood. George, bothered by the roughness of Johnny’s approximation, had taken it upon himself to mark out a correct keyboard with the kitchen knife, making Johnny name each key, “Middle C, C Sharp, D, D Sharp, E, F, F Sharp…” and so on up the scale. Until Ross had arrived home, it had not occurred to either of them that anything might be amiss in this action.

Now Ross, dispirited at being immediately reminded of his own inadequate efforts at helping his husband and stepson feel more at home, began to worry about George’s carving. The markings grew in his mind until he imagined them a sinister sign of something other. 

* * *

  
  


**_19th September 1848 - New Zealand_ **

**_Early Afternoon_ **

  
  


Still concerned, Ross paid a visit to his sister at the mission house. The mission house was of more sturdy and permanent structure than other buildings in Backton, with polished wooden banisters, heavy wood paneling, lace curtains, wallpaper hung on all the walls, and Anne’s own samplers with biblical quotations adorning the mantlepiece. Anne’s parlour resembled that of an English house more fully than any other home Ross frequented. He found its comforts most welcoming. Anne’s mission girls, Heni and Mary, sewed while Ross helped his sister to make angel wings for the upcoming Christmas play.

When Ross came back inside after retrieving some wood, Edward Little followed behind. Little was an infrequent visitor at the mission house, normally only coming when there was business needing tending; he could not abide by the social niceties observed by Ross and the other settlers. Thus he made it his own rule to wait and take his tea in the kitchen.

After taking a seat beside his sister, his expression concerned, Ross asked, “Anne, what would you think if someone played a kitchen table like it were a piano?”

“Like it were a piano?” Anne responded, quite puzzled.

“It’s strange isn’t it? It’s not a piano, it doesn’t make any sound.”

“No, no sound,” she confirmed. 

“I knew he was mute,” continued Ross, “but now I’m thinking it is more than that. I’m wondering if he’s not brain-affected.”

“No sound at all?” Anne remained puzzled.

“No, it was a table.”

“Well, he was very violent with the gown. He tore off a chunk of lace. If I hadn’t been there to see it, I would have sworn he used his teeth”—at this point Sophia had come in to join them—“and wiped his feet on it!”

“Well, it hasn’t come to anything yet, just something of concern, that’s all,” Ross said quickly.

Little stood in the doorway of the parlour, drinking his tea out of a fine china cup, incongruous in his rough hands. He listened to Ross speak with a trace of amused interest in his eyes. 

Anne opened her fan and began to use it rapidly. “Oh yes, yes of concern, just a concern,” she said, her brow furrowing.

“There’s something to be said for silence,” continued Ross, stirring his tea.

“Oh, indeed,” Anne replied, replacing her fan.

“And with time, he will, I’m certain, become affectionate.”

“Certainly,” said Sophia, “there is nothing so easy to like as a pet, and they are quite silent.”

Little listened without comment as he sipped his tea. He was unsurprised to hear the table-piano story. He had witnessed George’s communion with his piano, and now felt he had some understanding at his frustration at being kept from the object of his devotion. 

After tea, Ross and Little walked the distance to Ross’s, where they found Johnny riding an imaginary pony around the house. Ross immediately commenced the daily chore of chopping wood. “The grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men…” sang Johnny as he skipped, carrying logs back and forth between the woodpile and the chopping block, his white pinafore crisp and pure against the black mud. Johnny seized every opportunity to be in the open air when it was not raining, and liked to help Ross with his work. He enjoyed rooting around in the vegetable patch and chasing the chickens and had begun to explore the bush nearest the house, the dark undergrowth appealing to his keen sense of adventure. He flinched each time Ross’ axe struck the woodchop, but continued with his task happily.

Little began to talk. “Those eighty acres that cross the stream, what do you think of them?”

“On your property?”

“Yes.”

“Good flattish land with reliable water—why? I don’t have any money, what are you on about?”

“I’d like to make a swap.” replied Little.

“What for?”

“The piano.”

“The piano on the beach? George’s piano?” Ross asked, as though there might be another. He ceased his working as this matter required serious attention. “It’s not marshy, is it?” he asked with immediate suspicion. 

  
“No,” Little laughed. 

“You’d have to organize it up here.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

Ross swung the axe down onto the chopping block, smiling broadly, very much pleased with this deal. “Well, Edward the music lover, I never would have thought. Hidden talents, Edward.”

“I’d have to get music lessons,” Little laughed again, smiling. “It wouldn’t be much use without them.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.” Ross looked at Little, calculating. “Well, George can play.” Little shrugged, remaining silent. “I have it in a letter he plays well. He’s been playing since he was five or six.” He appeared to take strange pride in his husband’s achievement, despite the fact that he did not want him to have the piano. For his part, Little did not indicate that he already knew how well George could play.

* * *

  
  


**_Late Afternoon_ **

  
  


“I have got us some excellent land. Little has taken some queer idea to have a piano, and you are to give him lessons. Have you taught before?”

They were all seated at the kitchen table having a simple meal that George had carefully prepared. He could not cook well, nor was he accomplished at the other domestic duties expected of him, but he was too proud to admit either inexperience or difficulty. Johnny, having poured three cups from his own miniature china tea set, was drinking tea with the adults. 

“What on?” Johnny asked, prompted by George. 

“On your piano,” Ross told George, “that is the swap.”

George signed to Johnny, blue eyes flashing like a stormy sea- expression furious.

“What does he say?” Ross asked, irked once more by the indirect nature of their communication, and taken aback by his husband’s impassioned response to what he considered to be good news.

“He says it's his piano, and he won’t have him touch it,” Johnny interpreted, his voice infused with his mother’s indignation. George stood and paced back and forth, agitated, fury mounting within him.

“He wants to improve himself…” Ross began with growing irritability. This was a quiet he was most unused to- this  _ raging _ quiet. At that, George smashed a teacup to the floor, china fragments scattering beneath his feet. “...And you’ll be able to play it.”

George knew then that Ross had no inkling of how he felt. Burning with outrage, he began to pull Ross’ freshly laundered shirts down from the line above the woodstove, flinging them to the floor. Then he opened his notepad and wrote furiously, his hand shaking as he clutched the silver pencil.

“Teach him how to look after it,” Ross directed, his voice harsh. George handed him the note which read,  _ “NO, NO, THE PIANO IS MINE. IT’S MINE.” _

Ross slammed the note, and his fist, onto the table, upsetting the rest of the cups. He stood. “You can’t go on like this. We’re a family now, we all make sacrifices and so will you,” he shouted. This was too much for George. He knocked the teacups, teapot, and bread off the table. Johnny stooped to pick up the cups, but quickly stepped back as George impulsively hurled a plate at Ross who had been in the process of retreating from the room. The plate smashed into the wall, halting Ross’ steps. 

“You shall teach him. I shall see to it!” Ross turned and walked stiffly outside, leaving George suddenly pale and still, staring at the door his husband had just slammed.

Knowing, deep down, that he had no other choice, George angrily resolved to do his husband’s bidding- albeit in the most minimal terms. If Mr. Little should come to regret his purchase and find his lessons grim, well, so be it.

Outside, Ross paced the mud in front of the house, still pulsing with anger. His ordered life had been turned upside down, and nothing was proceeding as he hoped it might. The piano simply had to be traded. He had sent for a spouse, a helpmeet, someone to assuage the loneliness he was beginning to feel and knew would worsen with time. He had not bargained for a husband who would hold a box of wood and ivory more dear than the wishes of his own husband.

Ross believed his survival depended upon the acquisition of land. Farming was slow and difficult; land was his only real currency. There was no time for leisure, for the luxurious pursuits of distant cities and salons he had once known; if George Hodgson was so devoted to music, he could volunteer to play the mission hall piano. Land was infinitely more important than the piano on the beach, and what truly pleased Ross was the unexpected good use he had finally made of the piano; eighty acres was a very good trade.

  
  



	7. And that’s how he lived, lips clamped over a perfect voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 

**_20th September 1848_ **

**_Early Morning_ **

  
  


And so it was that Edward Little journeyed once again to the beach for the piano. He was not unaccompanied. Eight Maori men, a woman, and her daughter traveled with him. The piano remained where they had left it marooned like the wreck of a ship on the beach. As before, there were clear indications that the piano had received further visitors. There were more footprints on the sand and some of the boards had been pulled back where Edward had replaced them. Remembering the way that George had played served to renew his enthusiasm for possessing the thing, enthusiasm now sorely needed as the instrument could not have been more awkward to transport. The men struggled, grunting and swearing, while others joked, prompting Edward to laughter. At that moment, someone stumbled and the back of the piano crashed to the ground, thundering out in the bottom end of the scale, the sound carrying across a great sweep of bush. The men scattered, as though the crate housed a terrifying beast that had risen to life. 

The sound terrified him, as well, but for an entirely different reason. He was disquieted and dreaded the dismay George would display upon hearing it. The light would leave the sea of his eyes and he knew with utter certainty there would come a storm beyond reckoning. The man might not speak, but he was far from silent. 

Once the piano finally came to rest in Edward’s hut, everyone strewn across the floor and porch, resting, Edward removed the crating. The piano was revealed to him as a thing of unusual beauty; despite its recent maltreatment, there was a sheen discernable beneath the layer of salt that had crept over the rosewood. Edward set to cleaning the instrument, beginning with the legs that had been exposed to the greatest abuse from the sea. He worked upwards, cleaning and oiling, restoring some of the piano’s dignity. When he reached the ivory keys he thought to polish them with a drop of wax, thinking deeply of George and his pale, slender fingers dancing across the ivories. As he rubbed, the notes sounded beneath his fingers and even his untutored ear could detect a slackness, an atonal vibration, to the strings. 

* * *

  
  


**_Early Afternoon_ **

  
  


George mounted his husband’s horse and was led by Ross along the path to Edward’s hut. Johnny perched in front of him, pleased to be upon a horse, but even the warmth of his son’s body did not lift George’s spirits. Every time he entered this landscape, where the path sloped up through a strange, bearded forest, where the tops of the trees were bare and glittering, George thought it alien in some new and mystifying way, as though the land itself changed shape nightly. 

“I’d try children’s tunes,” Ross advised, “nothing more complicated…” He glanced up at his husband on the horse, but George would not look at him. He might be obedient, but he was unrepentant.

“Just be encouraging, no one expects him to be good,” Ross continued, once again looking up at George, searching his expression for any hint of a thaw. His face remained remote, inaccessible. 

Upon their arrival, Edward greeted the threesome politely, smiling shyly at George and Johnny who made no attempt to acknowledge him. Inside, the rosy wood of the piano shone quite out of place, the only polished furniture in the rough hut. Ross walked over to the instrument, running his hand along the top, and then lifted the lid, at last curious about the object he had traded away- the object that held such sway over his beauteous, cold husband.

“It looks good,” said Ross, smiling and nodding at George with some expectancy. “Very nice-looking thing. Well…” he turned to Edward, who also smiled openly, hoping George was pleased that he’d retrieved the piano from the torment of the sea. 

“I wish you luck,” Ross smiled. “They’re very excited about the lessons.”

Quite to the contrary, George and Johnny looked anything but excited; Johnny shy and not unaware of the tension emanating from his mother tugged obsessively at a loose thread on his sleeve, unraveling it. George stared fixedly at the floor, icy and implacable. 

“Johnny will explain anything George says,” Ross said lightly. “They talk through their fingers. You can’t believe what they say with just their hands.” He made his farewell, then, leaving his husband and stepson to their piano lesson.

Edward walked to the piano. Lifting the lid, he admired the gloss of the keys, wanting to communicate to George that the lessons might begin. George signed to Johnny, and Johnny spoke to Edward: “My mother wants to see your hands. Hold them out.”

Edward hesitated, then held out his hands which he spread wide, as if holding a globe.

“No, no, like this…” Johnny brought his own neat little fingers together, first with their backs up, then turning them over. Edward, shyly keen, did the same only his hands were coarse and spoke of his life.

George signed to Johnny: “You have to wash them.”

“They are washed.”

“Wash them again.”

Edward looked down at his hands as though they belonged to a stranger. “The marks do not come off,” he said, slowly, offering them for George’s inspection. George looked away. “These are scars and hardened skin.”

Both man and child did not move, but Johnny stared at Edward’s rugged hands, fascinated. Shoulders heavy, Edward took a tin bucket from where it hung on the wall, dropping a scrubbing brush and soap into it with a dull clank. George watched through the small window as Johnny, standing beside Edward, gravely indicated where he should scrub.

Furtively, George moved to his piano. He deeply yearned to touch it, but he was now torn, desiring with such force the sensation of the ivory keys beneath his fingers—against his skin—but knowing it was no longer his to touch. The piano was now a forbidden thing. He stroked the varnished wood, his hand barely glancing the surface, then softly lifted the lid. One hand to his mouth as though to steel himself, he laid a finger on a key, pressing the ivory downward very slowly. A muffled note sounded, and George gently played a few more, then quite suddenly drew back. The instrument was horribly out of tune, every note warped and hollowed beyond recognition. Snapping down the lid, George went outside where Johnny was still watching over Edward. He signed abruptly, making his way down the steps of the verandah. 

“There’s no tune left in the piano,” said Johnny, “so he can’t teach you.”

* * *

  
  


**_30th September 1848_ **

**_Early Afternoon_ **

  
  


The piano tuner was blind and it was arduous to transport him from Otaki; indeed he had to be carried on Edward’s back for much of the way. He took pleasure in watching the white-haired old man touch the piano, listening as its health was slowly restored. 

“Ah...a Broadwood,” said the tuner as he ran his seeing hands over the wood. “A fine instrument. I’ve not seen one here, nor in New South Wales where I have tuned some two hundred.” From his pocket he took a carefully wrapped tuning fork. Uncovering the fork, the old man lifted the back and lid of the piano and began to tune, drawing the strings taut as they criss-crossed in the manner of all boxed grands. He leant in close to the instrument and sniffed the air. Edward watched as he put his nose to the keys. “Scent,” he said, “and salt, of course.”

“What will you play when it's tuned?”

“I can’t play,” said Edward.

“You don’t play?” The blind old tuner straightened up, stunned, and then slowly began to laugh. The enormous futility of their long bush journey into this remote valley at first seemed tragic, but this man’s simple admission struck him more sweetly, such that their adventure together had all the best qualities of divine farce.

“Well, my dear Miss Broadwood,” he said, patting the piano on its lid, “tuned but silent.” The tuner continued, shaking his head and chuckling. “Perhaps I understand you better than you know. My wife, you see, sang with a bell-clear tone. After we married, she stopped. She said she didn’t feel like singing, that life made her sad. And that’s how she lived, lips clamped over a perfect voice.”

But Edward had not traded land and transported the piano to his hut as an object to be merely looked upon in silence; he knew that, with it in tune, George would be unable to resist the lure of the instrument. The need to commune with it would be too great; and so he began to anticipate his next lesson and the opportunity, once again, to be in the presence of George Hodgson and his otherworldly music, which had resonated in his thoughts and dreams since that day on the beach. 

* * *

  
  


**_Night_ **

  
  


George lay awake, neither dreaming nor sleeping. He felt a queer mixture of churning emotion. On the one hand he was deeply relieved that the piano had been rescued from where it sat, sinking into the sand, yet he could not believe Ross had bargained away the only possession for which he cared, the only thing save his son that gave him pleasure and freedom in life. He would not have traveled all this way across the sea and endured such privations to lose his piano. Ross had deprived him of his voice, and so voiceless he remained. His loss was the pain of losing one’s love, and he was bereft, his heart broken. The piano was the only thing he had ever been encouraged to master, to make his own, and thinking of it in this manner led his thoughts to James Fitzjames. Eyes growing moist, he abruptly put that memory away and turned over in the small bed he shared with Johnny.

* * *

  
  


**_14th April 1829 - Wiltshire, England_ **

  
  


_ While Arthur Hodgson had resolved when George was twelve that he should have proper piano tutoring—to reign in the preternatural qualities of his playing—it was not until four years later that twenty-three year old James Fitzjames was engaged and brought to the Hodgson home, resplendent in a purple sash waistcoat and black frock coat that flapped dramatically in the wind. He wore his hair long beneath a fine velvet cap. _

_ For the first week James did not meet George. On the third day it was then explained by Arthur that his son was shy and quite unused to people, but he had agreed to spend time in the music room next week. Until then James should entertain himself as he pleased, play his piano, and in general settle in.  _

_ The first day of the second week James came down into the music room and was surprised to see George already waiting; a tall, slender, perfectly dressed boy of sixteen wearing a pleasant cornflower blue day dress, and whose fine blond hair was just shy of touching the middle of his back. His expression was solemn despite the light airiness of his appearance. The white lace at his collar and cuffs was delicate, and it touched James that he appeared so fragile, with his long hands, slender fingers, and slim neck. A perfect, proud angel. _

_ As James moved forward to say hello, he unlatched a slim metal box that hung from a ribbon around his neck and removed a silver pencil attached to the side. Inside the box were small perfectly fitted pieces of cream paper, and onto the top sheet he wrote briefly and passed it to James, carefully stepping back into his original position by the table at the far end of the room. On the piece of paper was written, “I do not speak.” _

_ For two weeks James was unable to coax George away from the tableside, but he considered it progress that in the second week he left the room and returned carrying a dining room chair that he placed beside the table and sat on.  _

_ Despite the peculiarity of the situation James was surprised to find himself chatty and comfortable, so that he carried on both sides of their conversation in between performances on the piano. All requests to George to play were met with deep blushes, a bowed head, and, on an early occasion, a walk out of the room. James himself was an average pianist. He had good feeling and was well measured; he had a wide appreciation but knew by heart only the beginnings of pieces. Understandable given that he had long been in the navy before taking to teaching piano. _

_ Often in the afternoon the two would wander together over the estate and across pasture land. On one of these walks James was surprised and pleased when George took his hand. At first this affectionate gesture was puzzling, but, as it stood, he felt only a great satisfaction, as if something in the spirit of his entrancing silent companion had seen into his soul and decided him good. _

_ And so their lessons progressed. George gradually began to play in James’ presence, although, for the first month he would play only when he thought James was out of hearing range. One day he played a tune he had learned by ear, a popular melody his father often hummed. When he finished and turned away from the piano, he realized James was standing in the doorway. He was smiling broadly and he raised his hands and clapped several times, but George was too modest to return his gaze. He left the piano and made to leave the room when James said firmly, “All right. Today you will begin to learn to read music.” _

_ Learning to read music was a revelation to George. He had no idea that the written language of the piano could be so precise and complex. He loved to read books for the stories they told, the way a well-crafted tale could lead him to another life worlds away from his own. And in reading music, he found a similar transport into another, new world with a new, beautiful language that in this household only he and James could speak. This only added to his interest. _

_ Over his initial hesitation, George was a good student of the piano. James thought there might be nothing he could not achieve; he reflected warmly that he might one day be even more accomplished than he himself. In front of him George still played with a reticence born out of shyness and reserve. However, this was not something James considered a flaw; he himself was a musician who valued formality and correctness as much as emoting and dramatic flourish.  _

_ George’s piano lessons began to take precedence over his other pursuits, academic and domestic alike. While it had been agreed that James would also teach his new pupil French, he found that once they had met he felt rather embarrassed by the notion of imposing a new language, a spoken one at that, on George.  _

_ As time went on, Arthur looked on the proceedings with a slight unease; his son had always seemed possessed by the piano, and his idea of formal training had only served to accentuate the wild nature of his playing, despite adding structure and accuracy to his style. But these thoughts were easy to push to the back of his mind. After all, his only child’s happiness mattered more than other considerations, and it never ceased to plague him that he himself had played a part in rendering his son mute. James Fitzjames had come with good references; the young man conformed to the household neatly. And George liked him.  _

* * *

  
  


**_2nd October 1848_ **

**_Morning_ **

  
  


Sunlight filtered into the room, a slash of it falling upon the piano. Thousands of particles of dust become visible floating in the air. Edward stood at the window in his nightshirt and upon noticing the dust on the piano he stripped his shirt to use as a duster. Beneath the shirt he was naked. As he wiped the smooth wood he became aware of his nudity. His movements then became slower until he was no longer cleaning, but rather caressing the piano. 

Unbidden, the image of George playing with such wild abandon on the beach—pale fingers making love to the keys—flashed across Edward’s mind. The memory left him breathless- aching. His eyes fell on the smooth keys, almost seeing George’s hands overlaid upon the ivory. Stirred by primal emotion, he knelt, smoothing his hand slowly up one of the legs as he bent, touching his lips to the ivory keys. 

* * *

  
  


**_4th October 1848_ **

**_Late Morning_ **

  
  


The day of the next lesson soon arrived. Halfway along the path to Edward’s hut, George was overcome by longing. He sat down on the mossy, fern-mantled ground, spreading his dark cloak beneath his deep blue dress. Johnny sprawled behind him, eyes closed, feeling the warm sun pass over his face, the straw bonnet he wore catching the light and holding it there. Tuned as he was to his mother’s emotions, Johnny found himself thinking of England, his pony Terror, and the roller skates he had left behind. He played with a bit of fern plucked from the earth while his mother sat upright, overwhelmed with an ardent homesickness, the force of which near made him faint. 

What was his father doing now, was he thinking of him? Would he ever see him again? How were the seasons passing in Wiltshire? Why had he agreed to travel so far away? George ached to return to the familiar rooms and corridors of the house in which he had always loved. He had not known that separation from his home would be so painful, and what was this place where he found himself now, what kind of life could he live here? 

After a spell during which George struggled to cast off his despair, he rose, alerted Johnny, and they continued on their way. At the end of the path he sent his son ahead to knock on the door of Edward’s hut. He waited at a distance while Johnny relayed what he had been told to say. 

“Mother says he can’t stand to play the piano with it all out of tune. So I’m to do scales.” Johnny entered the dark hut while George remained outside, beyond the porch. 

The boy sat down at the piano and, turning to Edward, spoke in a manner he thought might be teacherly, “I hope you’ve scrubbed your hands.” He began to play, stopping almost immediately. “Oh, it’s in tune,” he commented, surprised. He then began a scale more confidently. 

At the sound of the piano, clear and precise, George came forward, entering the hut. He hastened to the instrument and sat beside Johnny, moving the child out of the way. He placed his hands on the keys and played a few chords, unable to believe what he heard. The tone was good, the notes exact, mathematically even. He continued to play chords while Johnny objected. “I’m teaching him,” he said, unwilling to relinquish his position, but George ignored him and Johnny stumped away. He played another chord and then looked up at Edward who smiled with pleasure at his surprise. 

George stood and walked away from the piano, signing to Johnny. “Mother would like to see what you can play.”

“I’d rather not play,” Edward said hesitantly. “I want to listen and learn that way.”

Johnny and George frowned simultaneously, once again striking Edward with how eerie and uncanny they could be. “Everyone has to practice,” said Johnny bossily. He had been made to practice enough himself.

“I just want to listen,” Edward insisted in his plain way. 

George felt disconcerted. He held no desire for an audience any more than he wanted to teach. But, feeling obliged by his husband’s cold bargain, obliged in the end to his father in England for his hand which he had made, he went forward to the piano. He opened the lid abruptly, trapping Edward’s finger where he leaned against the instrument casually. He snatched his hand away and George made no show of apology. He played a short simple scale and looked up at the strange man who had purchased his piano away from him, as if to say,  _ “Well, you have listened. There, is that enough?” _

“Lovely,” said Edward, by way of encouragement. 

And so, slowly, belligerently, George began to play. He would fulfill his husband’s trading pact, however reluctantly. And yet, before he knew what was happening, his anger faded and his absorption in the music grew. Almost immediately, the music took him far away from this dirty, crude hut with its open, smoking fire, the stale loaf of bread left out on the table, and this man who could not play; away from all the difficulties of his new life. Edward stood listening by the window, while Johnny, still disappointed that he was no longer Edward’s teacher himself, wandered outside. George played for one hour before he grew weary of Edward’s gaze, which he felt burn into his back. As if he could learn by staring!

* * *

**_Late Evening_ **

  
  


That evening George was despondent, feeling a loneliness as deep and dark as the sea. There was so much work to be done in this place, he could see it would never cease. The reduction in his father’s circumstances as he grew older and how he let the estate run down had forced George to take on an increased share of the domestic labor. But the labor of his father’s home was nothing compared to the work of every day here in his husband’s house, where there was nothing to add levity to his tasks. He did not object to the work, it was a way of passing time, a way of filling the hours during which he would have played music had he been at home with his piano. Yet, it never seemed to end, this toil, and at night George went to bed heavy with fatigue. 

Ross was away working on his property often; his nights were sometimes spent camping on some corner of the patchwork of bush he saw as his estate. And when he was in the house, he kept distance between himself and his husband. After the outburst over the piano, they had both become very polite and stubborn with one another, Ross’s commonplaces tinged with guilt, George’s countenance cool and distant. 

On this particular night Ross was home and reading in the next room when George tucked Johnny into bed. Johnny wanted to be told a story, he wanted to be told about his father. 

_ “I’ve told you the story of your father many, many times,” _ signed George, smiling. 

Johnny never grew tired of hearing about his father. George himself did not really tire of the telling, even though after these years and for a complex web of reasoning, he had not told Johnny the complete story, but only a few simple and reassuring versions of the truth.

“Oh, tell me again,” insisted Johnny, reaching up to caress his mother’s face, drawing him near in the warm, golden glow of the candle lamp. “Was he a teacher?” George nodded. “How did you speak to him?”

_ “I didn’t need to speak,” _ George signed.  _ “I could lay thoughts out in his mind like they were a sheet.” _ His hands smoothed the air. 

“What happened? Why didn’t you get married?” Johnny asked, his brow furrowing as it always did at this moment in the story.

_ “He became frightened and stopped listening.” _

“Then I was born?” George nodded. “And he was sent away. I think…”

George placed his hand over Johnny’s mouth. Johnny took it away and curled up around it like a pillow.

“I think he’s looking for us now all across the world, across the red sea.”

Just then Ross opened the door of the room. He stopped, as though prevented from entering by an invisible barrier. “Shall I kiss you goodnight?” he asked Johnny, although George felt the question directed at himself. Johnny slid down beneath the blanket; George remained expressionless- eerily so. Ross nodded, then left the room heavily, closing the door. 

* * *

  
  


**_8th October 1848_ **

**_Late Morning_ **

  
  


Mother and son made the walk to Edward’s hut for the next piano lesson through the endless rain. Edward kept a friendly mongrel dog whom he called Cerberus, and it was Johnny’s pleasure to play about with Cerberus. The dog complied with his games passively, taking refuge under the hut when his enthusiasm grew too great, whereupon Johnny tried to force him out into the driving rain by pushing a stick through a hole in the verandah floor.

Inside, Edward paced the floor of his hut while George played in his insatiable manner, the music at once lyrical and insistent. He had dropped all efforts to teach Edward, and now played for his own pleasure, stealing time for himself from beneath his gaze.

Edward had heard singers and players in the drinking houses of many ports; he had sung sailor’s tunes himself at sea; had stamped his feet and danced with women who lifted their skirts and whirled gaily. It was nothing like this. His listening was not refined, nor discerning, and yet George’s playing made him hear, made his mind open and fill with emotion, like a bud opening itself to the sun. He could listen to him play forever. Edward observed that he played a steady rhythm with his left hand, and a counter-rhythm with his right. One piece seemed to flow into the next without cessation. These were not parlour songs, or jigs, or popular tunes; they were harmonies from somewhere else. He was drawn to George, to his self-contained music at the keys. It was as though this music brought this silence strangely alive.

Edward kept his head bowed, but as the playing became more confident and George became more absorbed, he raised his eyes to watch. He sat at a far corner of the room, enjoying the whole vision of this man at his piano. 

Presently he took his chair to a closer position and opposite angle. George glanced up as he felt him passing behind him. He thought it odd as Edward always seemed satisfied to listen, not wanting to play was beyond his imagining. He became engrossed in the music once again while Edward’s attention focused on him as he bent farther from or closer to the keys. 

Again Edward shifted his chair, carrying it round the back and to the other side of the piano. George watched him as he moved, conscious of his scrutiny, the shifting heat of his presence. From his position Edward could see more clearly and thus enjoy his fingers moving fluidly on the keys and the small displays of emotion on his face. His hands were so very supple, strong but delicate and fine. Twice he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, suffused with longing and appetence. When his eyes were closed, George glanced at him warily.

While Edward listened, he thought of the sea and of his own travels. In his mind, women and music went together. But this man, with his slender expressive back and long fingers that could reach so far across the keys, compelled him as no other. George had fashioned his hair differently today, acquiescing to the weather by loosely plaiting and pinning up his long golden hair, still allowing his tresses some small freedom, but yet left his neck quite bare. Edward stared hard. His long white neck, still damp from the rain through which he had walked, was irresistible. Without thinking of what he was doing, Edward crossed the room, placed one hand on his shoulder, leant down and kissed the perfect nape of his neck.

Gasping, George leapt away from the piano, his hand covering his mouth as though to suppress a cry. He went for the door unsteadily. 

“George,” said Edward, very much conscious that he had made a grave mistake. “Wait...wait.” He spoke quickly and quietly, not thinking of what he would say, not wanting him to leave. “Do you know how...to bargain?” The proposition came to his mind out of nowhere, fully formulated.

George turned and faced Edward, his face tense and apprehensive. 

“There’s a way you can have your piano back.” Edward Little had not planned this, but found himself speaking as though he had. “Do you want it back?” he asked quietly, knowing how the man would reply.

George would not meet his gaze. 

“Do you want it back?” he asked more loudly. 

George’s eyes met his. He looked at him steadily, waiting for him to speak.

“You see, I’d like for us to make a deal.” Edward looked away. Having gone this far, he might well continue. “There’s things I’d like to do while you play.”

George drew his breath with quick disgust. He was as crude as he appeared. He turned to gather his sheets of music and his cloak. 

“If you let me you can earn it back.” Edward offered. “What do you think? One visit for every key?”

George paused at the door. He looked at the piano. If he left now he would never see it again. He paced slowly around the back of the Broadwood—which had always been part of his life, part of his very soul—his face reflected in the polished surface of the rosewood. 

Edward waited.

George paused a long while, his mind racing, before finally clearing his throat as though to speak. He held up one finger and then pointed to the dark keys set amid the ivories. 

“For every black one?” asked Edward. “That’s a lot less. Half,” he said, still bargaining. 

George started for the door again.

“All right,” he conceded, moving to one side to intercept him, “all right then, the black keys.”

George gathered his skirts gracefully and sat back down at the piano. He had succeeded in reducing his payment to half and felt, even within these compromising circumstances, proud. He played the lowest black key, held one finger in the air, and then began to play.

Later, as George picked his way back through the trees, Johnny skipping happily alongside, he wondered what manner of bargain he had made, and what manner of man. But, George, firm and resolute as he was, unassailable within his frame, did not think about the nature of his bargain for long: he had to keep it. He had to have his piano. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much encouraged and will only provide further motivation for me to continue writing, so if you enjoy this work, please leave comments. ❤️ Thank you!


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